"Whisper Scream"

Disclaimer: If they were mine, I would be the happiest person on earth. But, sadly, they are not mine. I shall have to toil in the mires of life just like everybody else, rejoicing in the good as it comes along.
Summary: Michael is captured, but someone witnesses the kidnapping....from afar.
Category: Michael/Maria
Rating: R
Authors Note: This story has sorta been evolving in my head for over a month now, and I'm not QUITE sure how it's going to go. But hopefully it will satisfy! Dedication: To bec, whose wonderful tale, "Bird in a Gilded Cage," has had me so tied in knots and doubled over into a pained agony of anticipation, that I just HAD to try my own take on the incarceration motif. Thank you, bec! MUSE-ic: Sarah Brightman's "Time to Say Goodbye" CD. Especially "No One Like You."

-Goo Goo Dolls "Acoustic #3"

******

Chapter 1

He never slept deeply, as a general rule. But they got him anyway.

Michael Guerin's eyes snapped open as the chloroform-soaked cloth was forced over his face, and several pairs of hands took hold of his limbs. Reflex took over immediately as he tried to scream and jerk away from his captors. But the cloth muffled his voice, and no matter how hard he fought, he could not escape the hands that held him. They pinned him to the bed, and he'd never felt so trapped in his life. God, how many were there?

He continued to struggle for a few minutes longer, as his alien immune system fought off the chloroform that was invading his body. But it was too strong, too penetrating, and he found his brain already beginning to wander as it simmered in the sickly smell of the anesthesia. Muscles made lax by his failing conciousness no longer struggled so much as twitched. Slowly, he drifted away into the ether.

The kidnappers must have been wary about his true level of conciousness, because the rag was held over Michael's mouth and nose for a good five minutes after he'd stopped struggling before it was removed. Moving quickly but carefully, the ten masked intruders who surrounded the alien's bed lifted him-- with a fluent grace that comes from practice-- and carried him to the door. They walked almost nonchalantly past Hank, who was passed out at the kitchen table-- as if he were a non-existent problem. As if he could have cared a less that they were stealing his foster son in the dead of night.

Acting like it was the most natural thing in the world, the kidnappers carried their burden to an unmarked van parked on the scraggy grass of the lawn. Nine of the encroachers maneuvered Michael's limp form into the back of the van, while the tenth slipped into the driver's seat. There was the soft THUMP of doors slamming shut, followed by the low thrum of a well-tuned engine turning over. And quietly, as if it held no secrets, the van pulled away from the trailer, leaving little more than damp tire tracks to prove it had ever been there at all.

And in her bedroom half-way across town, Maria Deluca woke up screaming.

******

Max Evans opened his eyes to darkness, glanced at his clock, and decided he had the busiest window in Roswell.

It was three in the morning. Who on earth would need him at three in the morning? He groaned softly and buried his face in the pillow. As if being up till one o'clock studying for history hadn't been bad enough.... It could be Sheriff Valenti at his window just then, and he wouldn't have cared.

But the tapping on the glass was growing more incessant, and he came to the conclusion that he would have to face the music. "If it's Michael," he thought grimly as he rolled into a sitting position, "I'm going to kill him." Of course, there had been that time Liz had decided to visit him....

That thought alone helped him swing his feet over the edge of the bed to make contact with the cold floor. Rubbing his blurry eyes to try and make out his late-night visitor, Max made his way to the window, opening the latch more from memory and repitition than any awareness of the here and now. The figure that met his sleep-dazed gaze shocked him into wakefulness. "Maria?"

The blonde girl standing across from him looked terrified. "They got him, Max," she blurted.

Max's eyebrows furrowed. "What? Got who, Maria?"

Her answer made his blood run cold.

"Michael, Max," she answered, her eyes wide. "They got Michael, and I saw it happen."

******

"There's still no answer at his house," Isabelle hissed as Max handed Maria a cup of herbal tea. The petite blonde managed a small smile, but she held the mug in a white-knuckled grip and didn't take a sip.

Max gave his sister a worried look. "Try again," he said.

Isabelle shook her head and hung up the phone. "I've tried ten times," she argued. "Someone would have picked up the phone if they could. Which means Hank is...incapacitated, and so is Michael." Her eyes fixed on Max's. "And Michael never gets drunk."

"I told you," Maria cut in, desperation edging her voice with sharp tones, "he's been taken. I SAW it!"

Max put a hand on her shoulder to calm her even as he cast a worried glance at the closed door. It would do no good to wake his parents at this late hour. "What exactly do you mean, you SAW it?" he asked softly.

Maria looked at the ceiling in frustration. "I don't know," she said. "I just...Here." She tapped her temple. "I saw it here. In my head."

"You're sure it wasn't a dream?" Isabelle asked.

Maria shook her head furiously. "No. Not a dream. Definitely not a dream." Her eyes met Max's, and she looked panic stricken. "God, Max, I could FEEL it! He was so scared. Scared and alone. And they just took him!"

Max sat beside her on the bed. "How? HOW did you see this?" He'd never experienced anything like she was describing, and it didn't sound like dreamwalking.

Maria's eyes dimmed, and she stared down into her tea. "I don't know. I just did."

Max shared a confused glance with Isabelle. They had to figure this out before anything else-- if only to get a lead on where Michael might be. There was no doubt in either of their minds that he was truly taken.

Suddenly, Isabelle stood, crossing from her position beside the phone and kneeling before Maria.

The smaller blonde looked wary as Isabelle raised her hand and let it hover in the air beside Maria's cheek. "What are you doing?"

"Scanning," the taller girl replied, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. Slowly, she moved her hand in a curve, coasting over Maria's cheek, temple, eyes, mouth....

Her hand froze, and her eyes widened. "Got it," she breathed, wonderstruck.

Max leaned in closer. "Got what? What did you find, Izzy?"

A small smile played at Isabelle's lips. "A bond."

Maria's forehead creased with confusion. "A what?"

"A bond," Isabelle answered, pulling her hand back and standing. "Somehow you and Michael have been linked-- psychically attached. I don't know how, but it's there."

Maria looked even more confused than ever. "A bond...But, why would it show itself now, and not earlier? I mean..." She trailed off.

Max shrugged. "Perhaps it needed something powerful to kickstart it. Something outside the normal span of emotion. And this...." His voice grew grim again. "This counts as beyond the norm."

They waited in silence for a moment.

"What I want to know," Isabelle said softly, almost to herself, "is how it happened. I never thought something like this was possible, though now I don't see why it shouldn't be-- it's really just an advanced form of dreamwalking, isn't it?" She tapped a finger against her lips. "I'm guessing it was an accident, because otherwise one of you would have been aware of it. Obviously you weren't, which leaves Michael. But I hadn't noticed any change in him that would have signalled he knew you were connected." She had to think about something-- ANYTHING-- besides the fact that one of her best friends on this alien world was gone. Stolen in the dead of night for God only knew what purpose. Anything besides the fact that Max, or herself, might be next.

"Michael never WAS good at controlling his powers," Max said thoughtfully. "They must have just...gotten out of hand one day."

"But contact would have to be involved," Isabelle countered, getting very into the conversation. "And the only time I've ever seen him come CLOSE to touching Maria was at the Crash Festival, when he pretended to heal her."

"Then why would the bond be focused around her face?"

"Don't ask me. Who knows how Michael's powers work?"

"He kissed me."

It was said so softly, Max and Isabelle almost blipped over it. But suddenly, it registered, and two sets of eyes focused on Maria's pale face.

"Come again?" Isabelle asked.

Maria looked up, and her eyes were wide. "He kissed me. At the Crashdown. When Max and Liz went to visit River Dog at the Reservation-- after you'd left, Isabelle." Her fingers went unconciously to her lips. "He said it was to calm me down," she murmured.

Max and Isabelle stared at her in amazement for a moment longer.

"Well, that answers THAT question," Isabelle finally said.

Max took Maria by the shoulders and turned the shocked girl to face him. "This is important, Maria," he said firmly. "Did you see who it was that took Michael? Any distinguishing features?"

She shook her head. "No. Just...just black masks and leather gloves. All black. It was all black."

Max nodded, his jaw set. Casting his eyes from Maria to his sister and back again, he said, "Then let's hope this psychic bond you two have gives us some clue as to where he is. Because right now, we're dead in the water."

Michael woke to a world of spinning ceiling tiles and glaring white.

He winced away from the image, but he could still feel the room rotating beneath him, making him sick to his stomach. If the world didn't stop turning soon, he was going to unceremoniously vomit all over these pretty white tiles.

"You're awake. Good."

Michael knew that voice. It made him even more ill.

"Ms. Topolsky?" he groaned, forcing one eye open and looking up from his fetal position on the floor. "What the...Where am I?"

The blonde woman-- towering over him in black suede pumps and a tailored pants-suit that made her stand out like a devil in heaven-- smiled. "You don't need to know that, Michael," she said quietly, as if speaking to a two-year old.

"I kinda think it's important," he moaned, trying to force himself onto his knees. He failed, and fell back to the floor, sucking in a breath.

Topolsky chuckled, and he could sense her squatting down in front of him. "Feeling a little sick, are we?" Michael didn't favor her with a response, and she must not have expected one, because she continued without a pause. "That would be a side affect of the anesthesia. Something to do with alien physiology." Through his slitted eyes, he could see her smirk. "Oops."

"Alien physiology?" he muttered through gritted teeth. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Topolsky's eyes turned cold, and she reached out to grab him by the shirt collar. "Don't play games with me," she snarled. "I know damn well about you and your friends. I know EVERYTHING about you." Her fingers curled tighter, restricting his airflow. "How to make you talk, how to make you scream; how to make you wish you'd burned in that damned ship when it crashlanded in '47." She leaned in close, and Michael could smell the Vanilla Fields perfume that drifted around her. Nothing had ever smelled so foul. "I could kill you in a heartbeat," she hissed. "Don't give me a reason."

"I don't...know what you're...talking about!" he gasped.

Topolsky released him and stood abruptly, leaving Michael sucking in air on the floor. "SLIDES!" she shouted to no one in particular, and suddenly, the walls were covered in cells.

Michael could barely make them out through his nausea-blurred vision, but there was no mistaking the tell-tale green, squared-off circles. He felt his stomach turn to water.

Topolsky eyed him, smirking. "Look familiar?" she asked. "I must admit, it was interesting, finally having the proof we'd wanted for so long. I didn't know QUITE what to expect, but this was a VERY happy surprise. I had expected something a bit less blatant. But this will do." She leaned down again, and sneered at him. "Ain't genetics a bitch?"

"No. I think that term's reserved for you, Topolsky," Michael growled, hoping the anger gnawing at his belly would overcome the nausea that still lingered there.

He instantly regretted his outburst when her smirk faded, replaced by a scowl. "You kids blew my cover," she hissed. "You ruined my assignment, and sent me back to the FBI in disgrace. My...boss doesn't like his agents to be disgraced. It reflects badly on him." She reached out a hand, and traced her finger down Michael's face, from temple to chin. He winced as her nail dug into his skin, causing a long red welt. "So desperate times called for desperate measures," she continued, almost absently, eyes focused on the path she had marked along his cheek.

When she came back to lucidity, her eyes flashed. "They can't report you missing," she said coldly, "because it's too risky. No one at the school will notice your absence-- as if you're ever there anyway. And that drunk foster father of your's won't care one way or the other, so long as his check comes every month. And we'll be sure that continues to happen." Topolsky's eyes glinted as she straightened again. "So it's you and me, sweetie-pie. Won't we have fun?"

"Go to Hell, Topolsky," he moaned.

"You first," she replied. Turning, she started to walk away, but seemed to think better of it, and spun around again. "And this is for blowing my cover," she growled. Drawing back her foot, she delivered a kick to his tender stomach with the pointed toe of her shoe.

Michael lost it. Any control he'd had over his nausea hit the road when her foot made impact. He felt the bile rise uncontrollably in his throat, and then it exploded from his mouth, covering the impeccable white tile with the remains of the measly dinner he'd eaten hours-- days? months?-- earlier.

Topolsky glanced down at him, where he lay panting at her feet, and then looked to her suede pumps, now ruined by his vomit. "Tsk, tsk," she scolded, back to her motherly routine. "Doesn't Michael know it's not nice to do things like that?" She extended her foot and wiped off some of his sickness on his t-shirt, making him moan in response. "We'll just have to make sure you learn that lesson, now won't we?" She raised one eyebrow, then turned and left the room, through some door Michael couldn't begin to locate had he tried.

He watched her go, and wondered how his life could get any worse. On further thought, he decided he'd rather not find out.

=========

For continuity: These events take place simultaneously with the events of chapter 2.

=========

Maria managed to swing a sick day from school the next morning, and spent the entire day in bed. It wasn't hard to fake the illness-- her stomach felt like it was on fire. Or rather, like it was going to explode.

The others gathered in her room around 2:30, after school let out. They'd wanted to stay with her-- Liz especially. When they'd called her at three in the morning, the dark-haired girl had been frantic at the news. "God, Maria, are you all right?" she virtually screamed into the phone.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Maria remembered answering. "But I don't really matter. Michael's the one in trouble."

Michael. The thought of him made her stomach clench, which was not a good thing for it to do in its present state. The memory of his fear still lingered with her-- it had haunted what restless sleep she'd managed to snag through the day. She'd never thought of Michael as afraid. A pest, yes. Arrogant, sure. But scared? It didn't mesh with his image. The emotion had shaken her almost as much as the vision itself.

She could barely feel the bond now. Except for the stomach ache, which she felt sure was due at least in part to her psychic link with Michael. Either that, or her experience from the night before had been even more stressful than she remembered.

"We checked his place before school," Max was saying, as Maria dragged herself out of her nausea-induced detachment. The young man sounded sick himself. "Michael wasn't there. Hank didn't know where he was."

Isabelle snorted. "As if he'd care," she grumbled; but the words lacked verve.

"Why can't you just dreamwalk into his head and find out where he is?" Liz asked. The brunette was sitting cross-legged on the end of Maria's bed. Max sat at her desk, and Isabelle stood semi-stoically in the corner, one hand fidgeting with the simple gold charm at her throat.

"It's not that easy," Isabelle replied. "Michael's dreams....They're...well, they're GUARDED."

Liz's eyebrows drew together in bewilderment. "Guarded? What does that mean?"

Isabelle bit her lip as she tried to think of a way to explain. "They're warded," she finally said, exhaling loudly. "I've tried to get in before-- just to see what was going on in his messed up little mind. But I couldn't. All I met was a big blank wall of nothing. I couldn't get through." She leaned against the wall. "I'll never get in."

"Could I?" Maria asked softly, and all eyes turned on her.

"What?" Isabelle returned.

"I said could I? Get into his dreams, I mean." She sat up a little straighter in bed, wincing at the pain this caused in her stomach. "If we really are...linked," she faltered a little at that, "then I should be able to get into his head." She gave a wry chuckle. "I mean, I'm already there anyway, right?"

Isabelle seemed to be considering. "It MIGHT work..." she murmured, staring inward.

Max shook his head and clasped his hands together. "No," he said firmly. "No, we aren't going to do it."

Maria threw him a confused look. "But...Max, this could be our only chance!"

His eyes met hers, and he held steady. "No, Maria. You're talking about dreamwalking. That is NOT as easy as it sounds. I do it only rarely-- Isabelle has always been best at it. And Michael could never get it right." He shook his head again, moving his eyes away. "There's no guarantee you'd even be ABLE to get into Michael's dreams. And if you did, there's even LESS of a guarantee that you could get OUT again."

The room grew still as everyone mulled over that.

Liz broke the silence. "Max?" she murmured.

He looked at her. "Yes, Liz?"

Her eyes met his, and Maria could feel the fear emanating off the other girl. "Why are you still here?"

Max's eyes flicked to Isabelle, and they shared a glance. "Because if they'd wanted us," he murmured, "they'd have taken us before Maria got to my window." He looked back to Liz, eyes grim. He'd been grim a lot of late, Maria had noticed. It didn't suit him-- it made his face hard.

"They took Michael because his ties were loose at best," Max continued. "Isabelle and I...we have a family. We go to school. I have a job." He shrugged. "And if we disappear..." He trailed off.

Liz nodded, understanding. "It would raise suspicions."

Max nodded.

Maria spoke then. "So what happens to you two when...when Michael's...outlived his usefulness?" She couldn't believe she'd said it. Nor could she believe how hard it had been to say.

"We're going to find him before that happens," Isabelle said firmly. Maria almost believed her.

Suddenly, a sharp, ripping pain tore across her stomach, and Maria doubled over in agony. "SHIT!" she shrieked, one arm wrapping around her abdomen as she collapsed against her comforter.

Liz and the others were immediately at her side, touching her, asking her what was wrong. Maria was too busy trying to keep down her meager lunch to hear them.

"Th..They're hurting him," she gasped eventually, eyes squeezed shut.

"Michael?" Max's voice sounded even more worried than earlier.

Maria could just manage a nod.

Isabelle rounded on her brother. "They're hurting him, Max," she reiterated. "Not just poking and prodding him. HURTING him. We have to try Maria's plan." He began to protest, but she held up a hand to silence him. "Listen to me!" she told him, and gestured to Maria's hunched form. "Maria is literally our only link to who took Michael, to where he is. If there is even a CHANCE that this bond can help us find him and STOP this, then we have to try!"

Max still looked unsure. "Izzy--" he began, but she cut him off again.

"No. Don't 'Izzy' me, Max," she fumed. "Michael is your friend. He's MY friend. Hell, he's almost a brother to us!" She threw her hands in the air. "And you want to just throw him to the wolves to keep the pack off our backs?! What is wrong with you?"

"That's not what it is, Izzy," Max argued.

"Then explain it to me, Max," she countered. "Explain to me why you won't at least try."

Max's dark eyes went from his sister, to Maria, to Liz's worried gaze, and back to Maria. "They've taken one of our friends," he said softly. "Now you want to let them try and take another?"

Maria raised her eyes to his. She knew she was pale-- probably white as death against her ivory sheets. But she couldn't let him think her weak. "It's my choice," she said softly. "My choice, and my risk." Max looked like he wanted to tear his eyes away, but she wouldn't let him. "Let me do this," she whispered.

The young man didn't shuffle his feet. He didn't hunch his shoulders, or pull his gaze away. Maria hoped he could see into her soul-- that those super Alien powers of his would help him read her like Michael had always been able to. "STILL is able to," she scolded herself. "He's not dead yet. He WON'T be dead anytime soon."

When Max replied, she almost couldn't hear his answer. But his expressive eyes spoke volumes.

"All right," he murmured. "But Izzy goes with you."

Maria just smiled.

******

When Michael opened his eyes again, the room had stopped its spinning, and his stomach was calmer. He thanked whatever God was listening for that small favor, although he could still feel the pain of Topolsky's shoe digging into his ribcage. And his nose was itching. When he tried to reach to scratch it, he realized his arms were tied.

No. Not tied. Shackled.

His fuzzy head was clearing rapidly, and he looked down at himself, feeling suddenly sick again.

If he hadn't been the one chained hand and foot to the surgical table, Michael would have laughed. It was like something out of a bad B-movie. His shirt was gone, and he was clothed only in a pair of thin green surgical pants. A heart monitor to his left read his heart rate in a neverending loop, while a brain wave indicator on his right scribbled his thought patterns in unintelligible, wavy lines. He seemed to have sprouted wires during his unconciousness. They branched away from him like so many mutated veins- red, blue and white.

Letting his head fall back to the thin pillow beneath his head, Michael released a sigh of frustration, closing his eyes. He wanted some tabasco sauce right now. He wanted chocolate cake, and chili peppers, and to be able to kick back on the couch and watch the latest white trash beat on each other on Jerry Springer. He wanted to sit in his favorite booth at the Crashdown and watch the world go by, while eating a basket of Saturn rings and following Maria's every move with his eyes as she flitted around in that cute little outfit...

Wait a minute. What had made him think of Maria?

Before he could follow that thought, Michael heard the familiar WHOOSH of a door opening. Tilting his head to the right, he grimaced. "Why hello, Ms. Topolsky," he greeted the slim blonde woman in green scrubs advancing on him. "I must admit, I rarely get this intimate on a first date. You know, the bondage and everything. I usually save that until at least...oh, date three."

Topolsky grinned down at him as she drew up beside the table. It wasn't a pleasant grin-- it was the exposed teeth of a hungry predator. "Humor is the way a coward hides his fear, Mr. Guerin," she told him.

"You don't like jokes?"

"I'm not a coward."

"Bet you're BIG fun at all the parties."

"You don't seem to understand your position here, Mr. Guerin," Topolsky informed him, checking the steady blips on his heart monitor. "We are not 'buddies.' We are not 'friends.'" She circled around his table and lifted the printout from the brain wave recorder, glancing over it with an appraising eye. "I don't care to hear your thoughts, and I have no intention of telling you anything more than you have to know."

"What, you mean no 'How does this make you feel?' talks?" Michael scoffed. "Gee, how will I survive?"

Her sharp eyes went to his, and Michael forced himself not to swallow. "That's simple," she said. "You do as you're told, and you'll live a long, happy life. Misbehave..." she trailed off, letting her silence speak for her.

"Oh, I'm shaking in my scrubs," he quipped, and immediately regretted it when her eyes began glinting. He was beginning to hate that glint. Hell, he was beginning to FEAR that glint.

Topolsky made no verbal reply. She simply walked away from him, to a nearby tray covered in a sterile blue cloth. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves and pulling on a surgical mask that sat atop the material, she reached out with a perfectly manicured hand, and whipped the cloth away.

Michael's stomach turned to stone.

Picking up a wicked looking scalpel, Topolsky turned back to him with a twinkle in her eye. "Let's begin, shall we?" she said softly, as though she were instructing him in the finer points of yoga.

"What are you gonna do with that?" he demanded as she advanced on him. "Don't let her see you sweat," he told himself, as he concentrated on keeping his voice steady.

She stopped beside him again, holding the scalpel to the side. For some strange reason, all Michael could think of was 'ER.' "Why, whatever did you think you were here for, Mr. Guerin?" she asked politely. "The conversation? I already told you, that's a moot point." She gave him a smile behind the mask that was as reassuring as the rattle of a Diamondback's tail. "Don't worry. I do have a medical degree. Nothing should go wrong. And if it does..." She gestured to the top of the room, where a series of dark observation windows circled the wall, just below the ceiling. "Well, we're not alone. Someone will come along and give me a hand." She began to lean in.

Michael shied away as far as he could, and she paused. "Don't I at least get some anesthesia?" he asked, unable to quell his panic.

Topolsky tsked him softly. "Mr. Guerin, you saw what happened the LAST time we gave you an anesthetic. It's too risky to try it again. Besides," he could hear the smirk on her face, "I don't feel like ruining another pair of pumps." She bent down, and placed the edge of the scalpel against his shoulder. "We'll start simple," she assured him. "Let's have a look at your ligament structure." With the practiced ease of one who was used to operating on corpses, she began to slice.

And despite all his vows to the contrary, Michael couldn't keep himself from screaming.

As Maria fell asleep that night, her stomach was twisting again, but she knew this time that it was all her own doing. Her nerves were getting to her and it wasn't just because of her soon-to-begin crash course in dreamwalking.

It was because the bond had changed.

Thinking about it kept her eyes open and staring into the darkness, much as she knew she needed to fall asleep-- Isabelle would meet her in her dream. Maria had suggested the other girl simply sleep over her house, but Isabelle had refused. "You're supposed to be sick," she'd said. "You don't have sleepovers when the other person is ill." Still, she hadn't looked happy about it.

So Maria knew she should close her eyes and drift off; but she couldn't. The change in her link with Michael worried her. It had happened earlier that night, while she was eating dinner in bed. A simple turkey sandwich-- her still delicate stomach couldn't handle more-- while listening to soft rock on her radio.

Then there was a searing pain in her shoulder and the sandwich was falling from her limp fingers and she was burying her face in her pillow to muffle the scream that ripped from her lips like the howl of a banshee.

Then it had simply stopped.

The memory of the pain still made Maria stiffen-- the excruciating agony of it. But it was this silent aftermath that scared her. As if a curtain had been drawn across her connection with Michael. The physical was cut off-- she no longer felt his illness, nor whatever it was that had hurt him so badly. She shuddered to think what might have caused him that much pain. She didn't think it would be a good idea to think too much about it.

What if this sudden lack of contact made it even HARDER to get into his dreams? And what had caused it in the first place? She had a theory about that part, at least. Michael didn't know about their connection, but some part of him MUST have realized it was there-- it was that part which had broadcast his fear to her, along with the pictures of his kidnapping, the night he was taken. And it was that part of him which had snapped off the connection when the pain grew too intense. To protect her. Some latent part of Michael's psyche wanted to guard her. The thought made her blush, even as it terrified her.

Of course, the bond wasn't gone. It had simply changed. The protection mechanism made it so there was no physical anymore, but there was EMOTION. His feelings seemed to flow to her like water over Niagara. She'd spent the next several hours huddled in her bed, as wave after wave of panic swept over her. If her mother had walked in, she would have called an ambulance.

Right now, thankfully, Maria felt little, and she took that as a good sign. If he wasn't feeling, then maybe he was asleep. It was past one in the morning-- he SHOULD be asleep.

She sighed loudly, and buried her face in her pillow. "So should you," she thought angrily. "Now fall asleep, dammit!"

But it was no good. Maria could yell at herself as much as she wanted, but she would never fall asleep that way. "I just need to calm down," she thought rationally.

The idea made her smile, and she let her eyes drift closed as she took herself to the place she ALWAYS went when she couldn't fall asleep-- that night weeks ago in the Crashdown. Her and Michael, alone, annoyed. God, he could be so infuriating! But she wasn't going to think about that right now. She wanted to concentrate on her favorite part.

####He turned her quickly, almost forcefully, and Maria found her lips suddenly angling up against his as he kissed her. It didn't take long for her own mouth to respond, as she explored the contours of his lips, the gentle maneuverings of his mouth against hers. One hand slid up his chest, and she thrilled at the feeling of his smooth muscles moving beneath her fingertips. Michael's hands slipped around her waist, drifting across her lower back, then down a little lower, cupping her supple derrier, and making her move a little closer.

Then it was over, and he pulled away from her. The loss of contact made Maria dizzy, but the memory of his kiss steadied her. "That was to calm you down," he said, his own eyes slightly dazed.####

Maria smiled lazily against the pillow. "It worked," she mumbled, even as she drifted off to sleep, to find Isabelle already waiting for her. ******

"It's about damn time!" Isabelle exclaimed as Maria found herself materialized in a foggy world of white mist.

She looked around appraisingly. "This is my dream?" she asked.

Isabelle nodded. "Sorta. This is the pre-dream haze. We don't really have the time to hang around here, though, so let's go." She grabbed Maria's hand.

"How?" Maria asked, truly puzzled. "Do you have a picture of him?"

Isabelle rolled her eyes. "No, but we don't need one."

"Why not?"

"Because we have YOU, braniac," Izzy replied. "You and that connection of yours."

Maria cocked her head, annoyed. "And just how do you intend to follow a CONNECTION, Ice Queen? It's not exactly TANGIBLE, you know."

Isabelle raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Instead, she gestured beyond Maria's shoulder. The smaller girl turned, and her eyes widened.

A long, straight road made of bright yellow bricks stretched out behind her. "Wow," she said.

Isabelle nodded. "Yeah. Real cute." She began tugging Maria down the path. "Gotta love the subconcious. Now, let's go find our Emerald City."

******

Isabelle was more correct than she knew. Maria didn't know how long they walked-- time seemed to move funny in this dreamworld-- but soon, they found themselves standing outside the towering gates of the Emerald City.

Isabelle turned on her with a glare, and Maria shrugged her shoulders. "What? The power of suggestion is strong! It's not MY fault."

The taller girl just rolled her eyes, and reached out to knock on the gate.

A small window in the middle of the door opened, and a tiny face peered back at them. "No admittance without proper identification!" the Munchkin intoned, then slammed the little door.

Isabelle fumed for a moment.

"See what I mean?" she finally said. "Most people-- like you and Liz and Max-- have open dreams. But Michael... He must have some weird shit going on in his head to throw up all this." She made a vague gesture to incorporate the entire city.

"Or maybe he's just afraid someone will see who he really is," Maria murmured, still staring at the emerald gate. Shaking herself, she turned to Isabelle. "So what do we do now?"

The other girl shrugged. "I have no idea. You're the one with the whole psychic thing going on. The yellow brick road leads inside. What do YOU think we should do?"

Maria thought for a moment, then reached out to rap on the door a second time.

The little portal whisked open again, and the same Munchkin appeared. "No admittance without--!"

"Proper identification, yeah, I know," Maria cut him off. Leaning down a bit so she could peer through the little window, she smiled. "So, what counts as proper identification?"

The Munchkin opened his mouth, and froze. A puzzled expression crossed his face, and he scratched his head. "I... I don't rightly know," he said, consternation lining his voice. Giving her a suspicious look, he hissed. "You got a name?"

"Maria," she replied. Then, gesturing behind her, "And this is Isabelle."

He held up one finger. "Wait here," he said quickly. "I'll nip in back and check." Shuttling the little window closed, he disappeared.

Maria straightened up, and turned to see Isabelle staring at her in shock. She shrugged. "What?" she asked innocently. "I've always been told the quickest way to get somewhere is to find out exactly where you're going."

Before Isabelle could reply, the window opened again. "YOU can come in," the Munchkin told Maria, "but SHE has to stay out here."

Maria ignored Isabelle's indignant gasp. "Sure! No problem. Right, Izzy?" She turned to the other girl, grinning around clenched teeth.

Isabelle didn't look happy, but she nodded stiffly. "Right," she agreed, forcing a smile.

The Munchkin nodded tersely, and closed the window. There was the sound of a ponderous lock being unlatched, and then the heavy door was swinging open.

Maria started forward, but Isabelle grabbed her arm. "Be careful," the taller girl warned softly when Maria turned back to her. "Whatever Michael has going on in there... Well, just be careful."

Maria nodded. "Don't worry, Izzy. I'm a big girl." She gave the other young woman a reassuring smile, then followed the Munchkin valet through the doors and into the Emerald City. Briefly she wondered if she should have told the taller girl about the agonizing pain she'd felt earlier that night.

But then she was through the door, and Isabelle was left behind, and all hell had broken loose, so little else really seemed to matter.

Go to Part 5-8